


Bleed American

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What strikes him most of all is that Osborn isn't looking at the gun Bucky has pointed at him, or even at Bucky himself. He's looking at the shield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleed American

**Author's Note:**

> Based on one of the Siege promotional images, which followed the pattern of most of Marvels promotions, and did not actually occur. Warnings for: blood, violence, but not in too great excess.

"Get up."

Stupid thing to say, he realizes somewhere in the back of his mind. It's taken this long to get Norman Osborn down, and now he's demanding that he get back up again to start it all over. Never mind that, because the order isn't taken. Osborn stays on his knees, armor dented and giving off smoke, blood dripping down to his jaw -- courtesy of the broken nose Bucky himself gave him through their struggle, after Bucky tore his helmet from him -- but what strikes him most of all is that Osborn isn't looking at the gun Bucky has pointed at him, or even at Bucky himself.

He's looking at the shield, and looking at it so intently that it's an honest wonder if Osborn even hears him at all.

The gaze is hard to decipher. It might be cautious in a way, which is justified by how tempting it is for him to drive the polished metal up against Osborn's throat. The lethality is an old habit that Bucky tries to smother, and he presses the barrel of the gun harder down against Osborn's temple instead. Covetous, he decides belatedly, that kind of stare is undeniably and selfishly covetous.

At last that stare turns on him , and oddly enough, it doesn't seem to change. Osborn tips his head slightly, as if the pressure of the gun sets in on his skull like a weight. He's finally looking at him -- covetously, undeniably and selfishly.

Bucky doesn't waver and his hand tightens on the gun. "Disengage the armor."

Osborn remains still and receives his reprimand for it. Bucky has fought Tony Stark before, in misguided anger and hate, and he knows not to underestimate the technology he created. He presses gun against his cheek, digging into softer flesh. "Disengage the armor," he repeats, louder and colder. His throat feels hoarse, his body drained, the fight taking its toll, but he still manages to bark the order like a drill sergeant. Steve would be proud of that -- if nothing else in this mess.

There's a moment of stillness, a tense pause of empty air, where Bucky isn't sure what might happen. The armor is damaged, a trapping weight rather than a weapon -- that much is obvious, or Osborn wouldn't have been on the ground at all -- but he can't say for certain if one repulsor still doesn't have one last burst behind it. At this range, one good hit can do it if Bucky's trigger finger isn't faster.

Instead, the unexpected happens, and Osborn's armor falls to pieces down around his feet.

The shock settles in briefly, a subconscious instinct of something so easy indicating nothing but a trick, and he pushes past it. Bucky moves quickly, kicking away the dissembled armor of the Iron Patriot under his boot, lest it somehow reassemble with all its strength again. His eyes never leave Osborn, and Osborn stays trained on him in return. It's strange, in a way, to see him without a suit -- either of metal or cloth, because either came with a sense of authority and strength, and both are absent. Here, in little more than the everyday, loose jeans and a t-shirt that stretches thinly over broad shoulders and firm muscle, Osborn seems almost ordinary. Exposed. Vulnerable.

It doesn't deceive him.

Bucky jerks his head, impatient. "Up," he orders steadily. "Now."

Osborn lifts one knee, raising his hand and dragging it beneath his nose, collecting blood. He glances down at his slick fingers then, rubbing them together -- almost thoughtful -- before cleaning one with a sweep of his tongue in a lazy, unbothered gesture. Bucky scowls and he taps his gun against Osborn's temple: a reminder, because Osborn apparently has forgotten its existence.

Osborn's attention does snap back to him, and Bucky is faced with that stare again. There's a hunger in it, dark in a way he could only expect. This is the man who stole the colors of the flag for himself, and it likely does not end there. The way he looked at the shield, craving and coveting... but, underneath that, there's something else-- something even more sinister, and it's directed at Bucky.

Bucky's thoughts are stilled when Osborn suddenly moves, grasping for the gun. He's quick, bloodied fingers almost closing tight around it, but Bucky is faster, and he brings the shield slamming down on Osborn's forearm. It earns an audible crack, and shout from Osborn, but not a break. Bucky looms tighter over him, the shield ready on his arm, prepared to start their brawl again.

To his greater shock, Osborn does not lash out again. His battered arm is held against his chest, but the other lifts, displaying a submission not frantically or fearfully, just pliant. It's a surrender, if it can be called that. Somehow, Bucky doesn't like it. He brings the gun in close again, and what Bucky likes even less is that Osborn lifts up to meet it. 

At first, it seems like Osborn is mocking him, or challenging him to pull the trigger. Bucky clenches his jaw, and braces for a taunt that doesn't come -- not out loud.

Osborn tilts his head, parts his lips, and slides his tongue along the length of the gun.

It's slow, dragging along what must be too hot to bear the touch, but Osborn does not waver, and Bucky is shocked into stillness for an instant that seems to drag like years. Osborn is eager, his tongue catching the blood that his brief struggle left in stains across hot metal, cleaning the marks away with languid devotion. Bucky stares down, and Osborn stares back, ever greedy, ever covetous.

As suddenly as this began, Bucky ends it. The gun cracks against the back of Osborn's skull, causing the man to crumple at his feet, and Bucky lets out a hot breath that he hadn't been consciously aware of holding.

Reaching down, he seizes Osborn by the collar of his shirt and begins to drag him off. His gun, slick with Osborn's spit and blood, returns holstered at his side without being wiped clean, and without another thought.


End file.
